[ If Sylar were interested in playing Kavinsky's game, he would have chosen the saw. Damage can be healed, one way or another. Pain endured. He doesn't like things getting in his head. But he doesn't protest, even if he watches Kavinsky's progress out of the corner of his eye, even if his mouth is going dry.

He settles that look on the bonesaw. Just sitting there. ]

Ropes break. [ Or their support beams snap, but let's not get too specific, now. God his dick hurts. ] Guns jam, and it's kind of sad, to me. Like putting a lame animal down. Gravity is certainty. And what's wrong with being dying dramatic, if you've only ever lived quiet?

[ The hand with the needle in its arm stretches, flexes, unconscious anticipation. He swallows for saliva. ]

How about you?